What Remains of Heroes (43 page)

Fencress thought for a moment of slipping down and slitting the fellow’s throat, nice and neat. Yet, the notion troubled her. Her hand found the totem strung about her neck, a wooden carving of Illienne’s golden sun.
No. There will be enough blood today as it
is.

Just then there sounded a loud crash. A flight of doves scattered skyward from a nearby tree with a great rushing sound. She looked to see a shingle shattered upon a pathway below. Above it, Drenj perched on the lip of the roof with hands upraised as though pleading innocence. Paddyn squatted a few feet away, staring at the courtyard with eyes wide.

“Shit,” murmured Fencress.

The spooker had his face upturned now, head rolling to follow the flight of the doves with squinted eyes. The birds wheeled about in a erratic dance, toward the far side of the courtyard, then high above, then back toward their tree. Fencress watched with dread as the spooker’s eyes tracked them, closer and closer to where the three assassins crouched on the rooftop.

Fencress turned her head downward toward the slate shingles, hoping against hope the black leather of her cloak would hide conceal her. She cursed under her breath and squeezed her totem.
If there is any god above or below who can save us, I call upon you now
.

She heard the flutter of the doves above them. Drenj yelped something in Khaldisian, a word that sounded like some kind of animal call. Suddenly the sound of the wings faded, as it seemed the doves had changed course toward the courtyard’s far end.

Fencress chanced a look and saw the spooker still on his bench, continuing to observe the mad flight of the birds.

He didn’t see
us
.

The doves were a radiant white in the morning sun, twisting and turning in an ever-changing shape. They changed course once again, darting from the courtyard’s far side, to above the door, then about a tree shading the spooker’s bench. The spooker gawked at them still, head tilted backward and mouth agape.

Fencress studied the spooker’s exposed throat and released the totem. She eased back on the roof and pulled her blades from their sheaths. She nodded to Paddyn and Drenj—they needed to dispose of the spooker.
Perhaps a killer can’t be expected to be anything other than
that
.

She was jarred by a sudden squeal from the spooker. The man sat swiping his hands frantically against his face, spitting and sputtering as he did. He stood abruptly and threw his hands to his sides, revealing a face covered in bird shit.

Fencress smiled, doing her best to suppress a laugh.

The spooker grabbed his book and dashed across the courtyard, threw open the door and disappeared within the Abbey. The door remained open.

Can it be the dead gods answer prayers from even the likes of
us?

Dictorian Theal stood just before the shackled form of Karnag Mak Ragg. “We toil on your behalf, beloved Castor!” he said, his voice booming in the crypt. “We do the bidding of Illienne the Light Eternal, and we will set free what this beast of a man has enslaved!”

The Dictorian and the highlander were illuminated by a column of brilliant sunlight channeled though a shaft hollowed into the rock above, a chute containing many mirrors designed to catch the sun’s brightest light. Just outside the light’s center stood Prefects Borel and Kreer, and beside them, at the Dictorian’s shoulder, was green-cloaked Merek. Gamghast, though, stood beyond the glow, uncomfortable in their midst.
This is a terrible risk we
take
.

“Prefect Kreer!” Theal demanded. “The text!”

“As you command,” said Kreer, pausing to give Gamghast a disdainful look.

Gamghast stiffened.
Alas, too few find righteousness in
uncertainty
.

Theal stretched his hands toward the kneeling highlander as he examined the book Kreer held before his eyes. “The Rites of Excision, the sacred incantations for freeing a captive spirit. Recorded by the Sanctum’s twenty-third Lector, only two generations ago and very likely in direct anticipation of today’s events. When I begin, be ready. This demon before us may refuse to yield the spirit willingly, and he’s likely attained some degree of power as a result of his containment of Castor. And Prefects?” Theal said, glancing over his shoulder. “Join your prayers to mine. Repeat every word of the Rite. Summon all the strength within yourselves, and channel your thoughts to me. The spirit of Castor should be guided thus, and find its place within me.”

Gamghast edged forward.
We must not interfere with Castor’s choice
. He moved his mouth to speak but Theal’s eyes found his and he fell silent.

“Remember your
orders
, Prefects.” Theal said. “Question not what I know to be the will of Illienne. I have foreseen this.” He returned his eyes to the book and began the incantations.

Dictorian Theal’s voice rose to a clarion call. It filled every corner of the crypt and was answered by endless echoes from the stones. They were ancient words, divine words. Words said to be the very tongue of the dead gods themselves, words of power used to work the most potent spellcraft. They hummed in Gamghast’s ears well after they were spoken, as though once put to breath they were given life.

Borel and Kreer dropped their heads, their lips moving to repeat Theal’s words. The voices became a drone, a chanting repetition of words of power, a reverberation serving to enhance the power of the Dictorian’s chant.

Gamghast, though, knew the words were lost to him. He had no heart for this. His mouth moved, but he gave no sound. His head fell, not out of pious reverence but out of profound disappointment.

Then there was a rattle. Gamghast jerked his head up to see Karnag shifting his broad form, listlessly trying to shed his chains. His skin was stained the color of salmon from much old blood, his back and arms were striated with scars. His head was a mess of thick braids covered in filth, and his face was cloaked in shadow.

The chanting continued for long moments and Theal’s voice grew more intense, desperate even. Sweat dripped from his brow and his arms shook as though struggling to pull down the heavens to help him. Yet, there was little evidence of any change in Karnag Mak Ragg.

After a time Theal slammed shut the tome and strolled about the shackled highlander. He thumbed the cleft of his chin, seemingly lost in thought.

Merek moved to Theal’s side, eyes intent upon the highlander and his sword half-drawn from its scabbard. “Dictorian,” hissed Merek, “why do these spells not work?”

“I have others yet to try,” said Theal, his voice thick with arrogance. “Out of respect for Castor I began with the most mild, the least damaging incantations. With these next spells we will rend the spirit from the flesh.”

“And if those fail?”

Theal shook his head. “There will be no failure. We will cut his head from his shoulders and pour out the spirit in that fashion, if need be.”

Karnag shifted suddenly, violently, and the chains rang. Slowly he raised his chin, moving his face upward toward the light. His gray eyes glittered fiercely beneath his heavy brow. He did not speak, but there was danger in that expression, a grim warning against further meddling.

“Your spellcraft augments the chains, yes?” Theal said, glancing at Merek.

Merek nodded. “I channel my thoughts to the bonds, Dictorian. They will hold.”

“Good.” Theal walked to Karnag and stood before him. He shoved forth his hand and seized the highlander by his black braids, then yanked his face into the light. An awful growl came from Karnag and his neck twisted at an awkward angle. “Release the Sentinel! By Illienne I command you, release him!”

The highlander jerked about and his body trembled. He choked for air and struggled against the chains. His muscles tensed and the chains scraped and groaned. He turned his eyes toward Theal and bared his teeth with abject malice. “I will yield nothing to the likes of you,” he said, his voice deep and eerily tranquil, a matter-of-fact pronouncement of a certain doom.

Theal’s eyes widened and his jaw slackened but he soon regained his composure. He released the highlander’s head and stood tall before him, as though to display a lack of fear, a righteous serenity. “Is this Castor who speaks, or the twisted captor of his most sacred spirit?”

“I am more than either of those things, Dictorian Theal. I am the ender of lives, the conclusion of souls. I am the ultimate wisdom of death.”

Theal stumbled back a step and turned about, his back to the highlander. “You see! Do you see, now? This beast is not our Sentinel, not our master!”

Gamghast glanced sideways to Borel but the rotund prefect betrayed no emotion, standing with eyes closed and continuing his chant.
This is terribly wrong. We cannot question Castor’s will in choosing this vessel! There must have been a
reason!

Theal turned boldly toward Karnag. “Have you nothing more to say? Tell us why you’ve enslaved the spirit of Castor to such ill-meaning ends!” He came ever closer, and then reared back a hand and slapped Karnag sharply across the face. “Release him! Release him to
me
!”

The highlander’s great arms pressed forward. The chains stretched and shook with tension. He said nothing but regarded Dictorian Theal with dark eyes—a killer’s look—and spat thick blood across the floor.

“Very well,” Theal said, striding to Kreer’s side and studying the open tome once more. “If you will not offer the spirit willingly, then your mind will be ruined and your body turned to rot. You will cough out the spirit with your last breaths.” He looked over his shoulder. “Prefects! Join your prayers to mine!”

Fencress dug the blade further into the servant’s side, not enough to draw blood but certainly enough to command the attention of any man who valued his life. “Alright, Wit,” she whispered into the fellow’s crusty ear, “that’s a good start. You’ve seen my green-cloaked friend. Have you seen him this morning?”

“Er, umm, uh…” the gangly man said. He seemed to say that a lot. They’d happened upon him moments before, while sneaking amidst the shadows of the countless corridors. He was the only person they’d spied in the Abbey who wasn’t draped in the robes of a spooker, so Fencress reckoned he’d prove the least troublesome.

“Remember, friend, I haven’t much time, and even less patience. Was it this morning?” She gave the blade a good twist to make certain its meaning was clear.

“Yes!” Wit said, shaking his hairy head. “Yes it was. Gamghast had me wake him for their meeting.”

Fencress gave the servant a good-natured slap on the cheek. “Now that’s the spirit, Wit! That’s precisely how business gets done, my friend. You give me information such as that, and I let you keep your hide free of unsightly cuts and bruises. Now, where and when was this meeting?”

“Er, umm… I don’t remember!”

“Fencress!” hissed Paddyn, gesturing behind them. “Someone’s coming!”

She paused and heard shuffling footsteps. “Help us now, Wit, or this blade goes clean through your guts. That would be an awful shame, especially considering our newfound friendship.”

“The c-crypt! The end of this hallway, then right, then left! Just down the stairs!”

She nodded and withdrew the blade. “It should go without saying, Wit, that you haven’t seen us and that all is right and well on this fine morning. Just as it should be. I’d hate to have to pay you an unfriendly visit so soon after reaching a solid understanding.”

Wit winced, rubbed at his side, and gestured down the corridor. “That way. Down the hallway. Go.”